I found myself wanting to talk to an old friend today. I wanted to talk about how the world seems so cold, willfully stupid and filled with dismay. 'Let 'em know that it gets me down sometimes, to see my fellow crises be so distracted from the important things. I thought about letting them know how I don't always appreciate the way the universe seems to treat me... ...and the misery it brings. I considered the notion that I might be struggling, the job seemed to be asking for more and more every day. Felt the tears well up behind my eyes, forcing themselves to try to give me away. I heard Théoden, who was lucky enough to strike an epiphany, while wallowing in despair. "What can men do against such reckless hate?", I thought about my answer as I fancied myself a philosopher, you know? "A man should probably get busy, initiate his own spiritual repair." You know my mindset, always trying to help me or others grow. I look down at your petunias, thinking about them dying in the melting snow. I let the thought occur to me, that the permission existed within that premise — that I was allowed to give up. I laughed at the absurdity, that I would create a tale where I let myself finally have a rest, finally put down my overflowing cup.

I could guess as to their reply, "Wouldn't be very you, now, though, would it?". I smiled knowing they were right, lying together hand in hand. "Probably not." I laughed, it was nice to be able to talk while standing over the pit. I find myself struggling to remember, how easy it was to stand. To glimpse our shared memories, the laughs, the wits, and the absence of their lullaby. The melodies, the crafts, the gifts, and the damn tears began to multiply.

I tried my best, for the first time, I put myself to the test, to be proud of me in the next climb.

I thought of the time we both laughed at my utter failure to ever fix my inner monologue. I'm worried that now, I changed who I should have been, turned myself into a demagogue. I put the flowers down. They have been weighing melancholy heavy, I think it's time I finally admit, I couldn't wear your crown. And that somehow broke the spirit, mourning us in my levy. I keep feeling guilty for feeling like I have to come back here. I asked out loud, "Is it okay if I stop doing this?" I knew I had to be clear. But you're gone. And I am always coming to this tombstone, and am eternally grateful you would even consider me worthy of a pantheon. I cave into the abyss, not knowing the answer — do I just want to pick up the screen? Dispense what remains of my spirit, into the digital glow, sight unseen. I took off my armor of pretending to be brawn. I knew you genuinely loved me, when I saw the fire dancing in your eyes every time you listened to me drone. And... I'm tired. And I think I can feel a cold coming on, and I didn't bring a jacket — there's a rumor the world's on fire. And you know the rest. I'm sorry it took me so long to build the funeral pyre.

I miss the part of me that liked pretending to be Superman, you know? That as long as I tried my best. I won't regret the absence from the peace I used to roam.

I thought about if there's ever any good way to end a lifelong conversation. Trying to let go of how you misinterpret my actions as appeasement and consolation.

I decided today was the last, no more bouquets for you. I think part of me just wanted it acknowledged, that you made me feel like I had to. And it's my fault, that you're gone. I just got tired of digging in my dirt, screaming I'm also getting hurt. They play those old songs we would bang our heads to. I'd think they might've been singing about me and you.

When I am honest with myself, I can't help but think maybe you already knew. I always wanted to write you a poem, but I think becoming from us... it was always going to be prose.